


catabolic seed (is bad luck really such a crime?)

by writer_zo



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Other, blaiselanta warriors how are we doing, dawn of a vampire oc age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28152300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer_zo/pseuds/writer_zo
Summary: The Sabbat have overrun Miami. Everyone Blaise considered a friend in the city is dead--as are most of his acquaintances, his servants, his partners. To make it out alive, Blaise is forced to cut a deal with an Anarch girl who has never held anything but teasing, marked disdain for him (and he for her) in the years of unlife that they've known each other. This is fine. This is fine.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Ventrue Character(s)/Original Brujah Character(s)
Kudos: 13





	catabolic seed (is bad luck really such a crime?)

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO BLAISE/ATLANTA STANS..... I know that I constantly tease these two on my blog because I'm obsessed to death with the enemies to lovers trope, so I'm sorry if this fic is a little disappointing for those expecting a kiss or any actual "romance" other than a very emotionally charged interaction between Blaise and Atlanta. I wrote this a month or two ago for an impromptu contest in my vtm group, and after some prodding from some people who liked it I decided to put it here in a more concrete form. I promise that some day I'll write fic where they have a more explicitly romantic interaction (at which point my storyteller, @wannabelichlord on tumblr, will throw me to a pack of wild dogs for turning his carefully crafted lore-rich campaign into a dating sim).

“Stop it,” Atlanta said, knuckles flexing on the worn leather of the wheel.

“Stop what?” Blaise asked. His voice was sharpened by nerves, and he spoke as though something were lodged at the base of his throat. Wonderful. Robbed of his most useful asset by his panic.

“Nevermind,” she sighed. She shook her head to get a sheaf of straight blonde spikes out of her eyes. “Just be fucking quiet.”

He obliged.

His temple ached against his finger as he pressed a hand to the side of his head, the pulseless skin cold and slicked with the rain he’d dashed through earlier. God, he had to look pathetic right now. Wet with rain, vest and shirt draped over his frame in a way that made him look as though a strong gust of wind could fell him. The thought made what was left of his dignity shrivel and rot like a grape fallen to the black soil of a vineyard.

The car smelled like old leather and a cheap kind of pine air-freshener fighting a losing battle against something metallic and raw. He leaned back, letting his head list to gaze out the window as the water speckled it and warped the street lights as they passed.

“Jesus,” Atlanta snapped. “Goddamn it. Now it’s too quiet.”

“I seem to recall that you requested this,” he said, eyes drifting back toward her, head turning with a heavy tilt like the boom on a sail.

“I mean, yeah, but not like this. You’re sulking. I saved your life, dude, pick your fucking chin up.”

“Oh, thank you. I feel much better now. I’m perfectly sanguine. My life is wonderful and my first concern is your happiness. How was your day?”

“You’re freaking out,” she said, glancing toward him, “aren’t you?”

“Will it satisfy you if I tell you that I am?”

“Maybe.” A smirk twitched across her lip.

“Then no. I don’t mind that my estate has fallen, nor do I mind that the city is in ruins, nor do I care that--” Blaise broke off, pressing his lips together. He could feel a red haze encroaching at the edge of his vision.

Blood. That was what he could smell--the realization filled him with revulsion. How many of them were dead? All he’d found of Tomas had been a hand. For one hundred years Tomas had been alive, his friend, his confidante, and nothing but a hand remained. He’d gotten out of that room fast--no telling who still lurked in the area, who could have caught his scent.

He was lucky to be alive. Maybe one of his friends had bought him time, in their last moments. That was a good thing. If he had been there to say good-bye, he would be a slick of gore soaking into the floorboards. And he could make more friends. He could always and _had_ always made more friends, and he'd always clawed his way out of Hell with a hand tied behind his back and a smile on his face and now he'd have to _do it again_.

Three hundred and twenty years, up and down the hill like Sisyphus. Three hundred and twenty years, and he still could not break the part of his spirit that kicked and screamed at the thought of starting anew. Three hundred and twenty years, a child, a ghoul, a _childe_ , and the smell of blood cut from a friend still made him flinch like a boy.

“Blaise. Blaise!”

Blaise blinked. He was sitting completely still--had been sitting still as a corpse. His fingernails were buried in the palms of his hands, digging at the skin, and every muscle in his body was locked in what could have been rigor mortis. God above, Atlanta was right. He was freaking out.

“Blaise. Come on. What the fuck is up with you?” She grumbled something under her breath--the car snarled over the rumble strip as she pulled to the side of the road. He swayed against the belt as the car came to a halt. There was a long moment where she said nothing, but he could feel her eyes on the side of his face, boring in cold like iron from a cellar. Merciless.

“I don’t know,” he said, finally.

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t fucking know!” The heel of his hand struck the dash, and he clutched the side of his face. He could see her gape in his peripheral vision, but couldn’t bring himself to care. “I don’t fucking know! Are you happy? Every year of my unlife has been spent trying to eke out an existence where I am finally happy and content! Every night upon night upon night has been spent asking and groveling for the universe to give me what should rightfully be mine! Every evening I wake up wondering how long I have left in me, or whether I’m so much of a coward that I’ll leave my associates--”

His voice was raw. He was an open wound.

“--my friends to die like foxes routed from their burrows for the dogs while I beg an Anarch to bring me passage to another place! God! It will never be enough for me!”

He was moving erratically, gesturing and stammering in a way he’d thought himself incapable of. A ragged edge of a Spanish accent had made its way into his voice, and he sounded all at once an old soul looking for succor and a young man in a hangman’s noose.

“Blaise,” she said. The sound of his voice on her lips was growing cheap. His lip curled.

“Blaise,” she repeated. A hand suddenly took his cheek and forced his gaze over--she swam in his vision as his eyes blurred. “Look at me.”

Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes were cold and clear. Was there still satisfaction in them? He watched, focused as a moth on a white flame, as they watched him, as the pupils dilated in the darkness of the cabin, as the rain lashed light across her sharp, pale cheek. Something less than sharp-and-jagged crossed her gaze for a moment--god, was that _pity_? 

“Cut it the fuck out,” she finally said, tapping his face hard enough to make him blink.

“...what?” he said, shock wiping the flurry of fear from his mind.

“I said cut it the fuck out. Jesus Christ, this is pathetic.” She grabbed his face more tightly and leaned closer--he made a small noise of protest that was ignored as she lowered her tone to a growl.

“You aren’t a random gophie for the Camarilla. If you were, I wouldn’t be hauling your ass out in my car, letting your goddamn Dracula cloak drip all over the seat.” She poked her other hand into his chest, nail jabbing his skin. He tried to open his mouth to protest, and decided against it.

“You haven’t had a good session with a shrink in a long time. I get it, trust me. But now is not the time to be a dumbass. You’re basically a fucking elder, dude. Act like it. So some Sabbat wrecked your place. Uh, big fucking deal? Get another. When I made the deal with you, it was on the basis that you could do my fucking jobs for me in return for me saving your ponce ass, not in return for me giving you a pat on the back and telling you how sorry I am that your fun little Miami job fell through. You’re my Cama-fucking-rilla personal-use dude, and I expect a--how would you put it, stick-up-the-ass?-- _modicum of professionalism_. Save the crying about your situation for your own time. You have work to do, and you have to fucking survive the night if you're going to do it.”

Blaise blinked at her--for a moment, he was uncomprehending, then she released him and thrust him back into his seat. He swallowed, blinking, and felt the swarm of frenzied thoughts in his head clear like gnats in a dry wind.

“Right.” He blinked again. “Right. I’m... sorry, Atlanta. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do. You freaked out, like I said. Happens to everyone--just don’t let it happen in front of me again,” she snapped, peeling out, “and don’t fuck up, or I’ll tell every goddamn person you know that you had a bitch fit in my Camaro.”

“Understandable. Deepest apologies.” He murmured the words, then looked at her again. She was biting at the side of her lip. It was a habit he’d noticed when he first met her--a tic. A small sliver of raw skin existed along the curve that aligned with her canine tooth at all times. “I don’t think anyone has said anything like that to me in a long time.”

“I can tell.” She smirked. “Trust me.”

“Did you really pick up modicum from me?” He asked, a little numbly.

“Yeah. It’s a stupid word. Let me drive,” she said, smiling dryly and rolling her eyes. She nudged him with an elbow hard enough to drive him backward into the center of his chair. He made a concerted effort to keep his gaze squarely out the window.


End file.
